


Hit and Run

by hedoro



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Happy Ending, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 15:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13010694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedoro/pseuds/hedoro
Summary: It's easy to lose himself in foreign places, in strange faces but somehow—it's even easier to lose himself in Uruha.





	Hit and Run

**Author's Note:**

> warning for mdash and semicolon abuse. everything's a bit disjointed but i kinda like it that way.  
>  thanks for reading, hope you enjoy! ♥

Life is simple when he's on the road. It somehow makes more sense in Aoi's head; course already plotted for them, satnav guiding them here and there, cramped van carting them to and fro; venue to venue, city after city until hotel rooms all start to look the same.  
  
The routine is easy—practised until perfect, he can do it with his eyes closed.  
  
Pretty soon his days are all just a blur of amber hues at sunset and bright lights on stage as celebrations involving alcohol seep into his system and cigarette smoke catches in his lungs. Day and night bleed into one, hard to differentiate between when he's sleeping at all times of day, forever catching up on never-enough-sleep.  
  
It's a seemingly endless journey, a never-ending cycle of rinse and repeat—it's easy for him to get lost in his thoughts; in lonely streets; in unfamiliar sheets as bustling concrete cities fade into endless seas of green and yellow and gold and brown.  
  
The seasons change and his hair colour changes along with them. It's easy to lose himself in things of a more transient nature. It's easy to lose himself in foreign places, in strange faces but somehow—  
  
it's even easier to lose himself in Uruha.  
  
Backstage behind a dusty curtain that shields him from everything, unbearably hot and closer to death than life as his lungs cry out for just one breath of fresh air, he buries his fingers into crisp blond hair; allows lips to press against his jugular and allows a part of him to be stolen and discarded, left bloody, raw and still beating by the side of the highway like roadkill.  
  
He's a traveller at heart. He comes and goes, fluid like the tide. A stray that turns and runs at the first sign of danger. Never showing his softer side, he keeps them all guessing as he tries to remain mysterious like the waxing and waning of the moon.  
  
But Uruha sees past the veil of smoke and shadows that he's content to hide in; sees right through his reflection in cracked mirrors and warped metal and glass. Whenever their eyes meet, Uruha forcibly peels back the layers of his skin, strips him down to his core until he's left naked and vulnerable and starving for a feeling of something that his mind and fingers fail to grasp.  
  
Puffs of warm, mint-tinged breath against his cheek on cold nights; a hand slipping into his coat pocket as he stares mindlessly at the stars; knowing words whispered into his ear; maw kissed hungrily under the shelter of darkness.  
  
Warning signs flash, light splashing across his face as he trips in the middle of the street and into something more complicated. The way forward no longer clear, he's forced to take the road less travelled, wandering with no destination in mind and no maps to guide him. But it's okay because he's always been a vagrant, a vagabond, content to drift as they travel to wherever they next need to be.  
  
While the simplicity of life on the road is gone for him, it doesn't seem like the end of the world like he once thought it would be.  
  
Hands tangled together under a mound of coats and Uruha's head resting on his shoulder, Aoi stares out the window into the vast blackness before him. Ignoring the chill of the wind on his face, he fights to stay awake in the back of the van and continues fighting to keep his eyes open so that he doesn't miss anything that might be worth something to him years later.  
  
  
They drift on in their journey, place after place, colours blurring and the screams of fans echoing on the wind until after an indeterminate amount of time, weeks—maybe months—on tour finally blend into time off and unnamed feelings follow him home, traipsing dirt into the carpet and leaving tell-tale signs behind them. Secrets backstage become secrets behind closed doors. He's yet to unpack his life from its stasis inside his suitcase, always ready to go at a moment's notice; everything about Aoi's existence is still temporary but somehow Uruha has become something of a constant—  
  
a permanent fixture in his daily routine.  
  
He's the wrinkles in Aoi's sheets; the chewed gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe; the shot of vodka on his tongue; the scent of lavender and pepper on his skin.  
  
Aoi breathes in—  
  
as Uruha slides into his bed, comfortable and sure like he's been there the whole time just waiting for him to catch up.  
  
—and smiles to himself, realising that Uruha never intended for him to be a hit and run.


End file.
